


Take Your Cares Away

by MinP1072



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Comfort but also Smut, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, Massage, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinP1072/pseuds/MinP1072
Summary: Red thinks Liz is working too hard, stressed over her sudden single parenthood and the job, so he drops by to remind her that she isn't alone. What starts as a friendly neck rub soon turns into more…Put it…somewhere over the most recent hiatus, after TK buggers off.I think this is the longest smutty one shot I've written. It may have gotten a little out of control.





	Take Your Cares Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greeneyesandgoldenlashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyesandgoldenlashes/gifts).



> Who said, "You know what I'd love to read? A massage fic." "You should write it," I said. "I want to READ IT," she said.
> 
> So here it is;)

Red lifts the paper bakery bag to his nose for an appreciative sniff as the elevator rises smoothly. Elizabeth has been far too reclusive since Tom disappeared, in search of redemption, in search of a past — she works hard, then disappears home, burying herself with Agnes in their cozy apartment. She needs to be shaken out of her isolation, be reminded that she isn’t alone.

_Pecan pie might not be the answer to all of life’s problems_ , he thinks cheerfully, as he strides down the hall, _but it can’t hurt_.

As he approaches the door, he can hear the fretful wail of an unhappy baby, and winces in sympathy and trepidation both. Already on shaky ground, he’s sure a bout with a crying daughter won’t make her any more amenable to his arrival. Firming his smile on his face with some determination, he knocks sharply.

He has to rap twice more before she yanks the door open. His smile widens involuntarily at the sight of them, both sweaty and red-faced, Agnes arching her back away from her mother in stubborn resistance, Liz in a stained shirt and a desperate expression.

“Reddington,” she says, her voice tired and upset, “of course.”

She moves to let him enter, so he sweeps in, divesting himself of coat, hat, and suit jacket in a few smooth movements.

“Now, what seems to be the trouble?” he says cheerfully, plucking Agnes out of Liz’ arms and handing her the bakery bag. “What's all this fuss about, young lady?”

He rubs her back soothingly, but she squirms and cries, wet cheek brushing against his jaw as she pushes at him.

“She just won’t stop,” Liz says miserably, near tears herself. “She’s had her bath, her bottle, a clean diaper…she just won’t stop crying.”

“All right, Elizabeth,” he says, “but I wasn’t asking you.”

He shifts Agnes around to cuddle in the crook of his arm, looking into her crumpled face. A little startled by the sudden change, her howling subsides into whimpers and she stares back at him, her wet foxglove eyes mirrors of her mother’s.

“It can't be all that bad,” he tells her, rocking her slightly.

Wriggling a bit, she lets out a hiccup, then offers him a drool-laden smile and starts to gabble intently, reaching out to pat his cheek with one wet hand. Liz gapes wearily at the criminal and the baby, both wearing identical serious expressions; Red nodding solemnly and making encouraging noises.

“Well,” he says to Agnes, as she hiccups again and stuffs two fingers in her mouth, “you certainly have had quite a day.” He looks up at Liz, and she can’t help but return his joyous smile. “I’ll just take her into her room and get her ready for bed, shall I? Her pjs are a little damp.”

And he strolls away, murmuring quietly to the baby in his arms. Liz drops onto the couch, and indulges in a brief little weep, born of frustration and loneliness and exhaustion. 

* * *

It doesn’t take her long to pull herself together — Agnes needs her, and Reddington must have a reason for showing up at her door. She wipes hastily at her face with the sleeve of her shirt, wishing that she didn’t look every inch the disheveled, frazzled new mother.

She steps down the hall to the little den that she and Tom had made into a cozy little nursery. As she nears the door, she can hear Red’s low, rumbling tones.

“There now, all clean and dry. That’s better, isn’t it, little sweetheart?”

She stops in the doorway and just looks, watches the Concierge of Crime hover over her daughter, tickling her stomach to make her coo at him. Her heart gives a little flutter, and she suddenly feels weepy again as she watches him swaddle the baby neatly and efficiently, then pick her up to cradle her again.

He turns, and she straightens, trying to smile.

“I see you’ve charmed her,” she says, trying for lightness, but sounding a little wistful. “Just like all the girls.”

He chuckles softly, rocking Agnes gently as he moves across the room. “She’s putty in my hands,” he says with a saucy grin. “Are you all right, Lizzie?” He reaches out, cups her face gently.

She feels the tears welling up again. “She…she misses Tom,” she chokes out miserably. “She used to spend every day with him, and now…How can I explain to a baby that her daddy’s never coming back?”

His face is so kind and sympathetic that it takes everything she has not to burst into howling sobs and throw herself into his arms. “Elizabeth, don’t worry so,” he says gently. “Babies are resilient creatures, and Agnes is going to be just fine. Aren’t you, little sweetheart?” He croons the last to the baby, who seems to be ready to sleep, and gives a small murmuring sigh in response.

He offers Liz the cozy bundle. “Have a little time with her before you put her down,” he suggests. “It will make you both feel better.”

He waits until they are comfortably ensconced in the rocker in the corner, drops a soft kiss on Agnes’ head, then one on hers, and exits soundlessly.

* * *

A little cuddle time helps, but as she lays Agnes carefully down in her crib, her thoughts are a whirling mess. She’d never felt quite so alone as she had earlier, pacing the living room with her screaming daughter in her arms, unable to soothe her, to deal with it, even to think. Then there was Red, swooping through and taking care of everything, the way he does.

She should thank him, she thinks, and maybe he’ll stay for a bit. The strength of his presence makes her solitary little home feel alive and friendly; she realizes that in addition to her loneliness, she has missed _him_ , him specifically, and wonders if, for once, she’ll be able to say the things she wants to.

She doesn’t find him in her living room though, where she expected to find him making himself at home on her couch. HIs coat and hat are gone, and she wonders if he’s just taken more pity on her and left; but then she spots his suit jacket still draped neatly over the back of a chair.

She also notices that the small scatter of toys has been collected into their basket, and the coffee table wiped clean. Feeling increasingly dazed, she walks to the kitchen and finds him there, sleeves rolled to the elbow and tie tossed over his shoulder, washing dishes and humming something she thinks might be Sinatra. 

She can’t quite process it, so she drops into a chair at her kitchen table and buries her head in her arms on the tabletop. Maybe when she opens her eyes again, she’ll be alone.

“I’ll be finished up in just a minute,” Red’s voice floats over to her. “I brought pie.”

She just groans a little in return, and doesn’t move. She hears him chuckle, and then the sound of running water. After a moment, it shuts off, and she hears his footsteps approach the table, the noise of a chair as he sits down beside her.

“Now then, Elizabeth, a little something to eat? What about a cup of tea, hm?”

She jerks up to look at him, knowing her eyes are wet again, that she is a ridiculous mess. She doesn’t really care. In that moment, he is a friendly face, someone she can lean on.

“What was I thinking?” she asks a little wildly. “Thinking I could do this alone? That if I loved her enough, nothing else would matter? I can’t keep up! The apartment’s a mess, I can’t even cook a frozen waffle, I can’t comfort my own baby…” Her voice is tinged with hysteria by the end of her small rant, and she can’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

“Oh Lizzie,” he says, rich with warmth and affection, so that just hearing it makes her feel better. “Take a breath, sweetheart. Every parent feels like this at times — it’s terrifying to have so much responsibility and trust weighing on you. You are doing just fine; Agnes is healthy and happy and she loves you. You are giving her everything she needs, Lizzie, I promise you. Babies are entitled to cranky spells and bad moods just like anyone else. And you can learn to cook,” he adds, with a sly wink.

She manages a watery laugh at that. “I’m just…I’m just so tired, Red.” And she drops her head again, so he won’t see her tears.

* * *

He’s caught between fond amusement and genuine sympathy. He can remember all too well the panicky feelings of dismay, frustration, panic, even anger, that come along with a night with an unhappy baby.

She’s collapsed on the table, but she doesn’t look relaxed — the curve of her back and the set of her neck are so rigid that he thinks it has to be painful. He gets up slowly and strolls around behind her, wanting to soothe, give her some comfort.

He gently puts a hand on the back of her neck and gives her a warm, squeezing rub. He notes with mild dismay that she is tight as a wire.

“Goodness, Lizzie,” he says quietly. “Your neck is like concrete. Sit up and let me work out some of your kinks, hm?”

“Oh, I don’t…” she starts, her voice muffled by her arms, but then she gives a sniffling little sigh and sits up. “Thanks,” she says instead, longing for companionship, for the affection he always gives, for the touch of someone who cares for her.

He smiles, although she can’t see him, and rests both his hands on the curves of her neck. He pushes his thumbs in toward her spine, sliding over her skin — not too much pressure, just enough to accustom her to his touch, to ease the worst of her tension. He moves his hands slowly down and across her shoulders, working at the stiff, knotted muscles with strong fingers.

He can feel this sigh as much as hear it, a deeper breath, one that actually gives ease. Her shirt is rumpling under his hands, but her skin is warming where it’s exposed to his. She makes a soft sound as he presses a little harder, and stretches with his movements.

“That’s really nice,” she murmurs, her voice long and lazy.

His pulse quickens a bit as she rolls her neck in his grasp, the soft ends of her hair brushing against his skin. He had only meant to offer comfort, he really had, but her sounds, her smell, the silky feel of her, it is all a heady brew to his senses. He wants more; he slides his pinkies and the edges of his palm under the collar of her shirt, soothing and pressing into her.

“You have good hands,” she says. “It feels so much better.”

“Would you like me to do your back?” he asks, wanting, needing.

She leans forward a bit with a small laugh. “Oh, please do,” she says. “It’s lovely.”

He hesitates, then tries, “Why don’t we move to the bedroom, Lizzie — it will be much easier and more effective if you’re lying down.”

* * *

She can feel relaxation seeping slowly in, as if the press and stroke of his fingers is erasing all her cares and worries and fears. As she starts to breathe more evenly, her exhaustion starts to catch up to her, and she thinks she could fall asleep right there in the hard kitchen chair. At the same time, her body is alert to his presence behind her; a sensitive awareness to his proximity that’s oddly pleasant.

Then he says something about her bedroom and lying down, which honestly just  sounds wonderful. It tweaks at the edges of her mind, as if there’s something else that she should be thinking about that, but she’s so warm and his presence is so welcome now that she just hauls herself up, smiling at him.

“All right,” she says, and if there’s a little bit of surprise in his eyes, she chalks it up to him expecting her to be less agreeable. “It’s…nice, to be looked after.”

He smiles back at that, and offers her his arm as he is about to squire her off to a dinner or a party as he has so many times before. She takes it — because she wants to, because he is being so kind to her, because she cares for him, too — and leads him down the hall.

She flushes in embarrassment when they reach the doorway; she’d forgotten what a mess it was. Bed unmade for days, clothes scattered all over, dim and stuffy and not at all welcoming. He must feel the returning tension in her arm, because he lets go and steps in front of her smoothly.

“Don’t ruin all my hard work, now,” he says with a smile. “Why don’t you have a quick shower? The hot water will help, and I’ll just wait here.”

She hesitates over that a little, but the prospect of the time to shower without an ear out for the baby, without having to rush — it’s too tempting to refuse.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “The baby monitor is there by the bed.”

“Don’t worry, Lizzie,” he replies, ushering her off to the bathroom. “I’ll take care of it.”

And as she slips under the steamy water, letting it rinse off the stress and dirt of the day, she really believes that he will.

* * *

The first thing he does, after clicking on the monitor, is crack open the small bedroom window to freshen the air. He takes a look around, then removes his tie and vest and folds them neatly on top of the dresser; toes off his shoes and peels off his socks. _This will take a little work_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t mind. He finds that he is enjoying the opportunity to care for her, the little domesticities that mean more all his grand gestures.

With an ear to the bathroom, he moves around quickly, picking up clothes and putting things to rights. A little snooping nets him a clean set of sheets, a couple of vanilla-scented candles and a box of matches, and a mostly full bottle of lotion that smells of lavender and mint that he thinks will suit his needs nicely.

With deft efficiency, he strips the bed and tugs on the clean linens, dumping the dirty ones inside the small closet. Just as he finishes turning down the top sheet he hears the shower shut off, so he closes the window against the night’s cool breeze and lights the candles.

He turns to the doorway just as she pauses there, her hair still damp, wrapped in a worn jersey bathrobe that hits her about mid-thigh.

“I couldn’t quite face putting that shirt back on,” she says with a rueful smile, tugging at the hem a little. She looks around and raises an eyebrow. “What’s all this?”

He affects casualness. “You were just getting relaxed,” he says. “Now, you’ll stay that way. Come and lie down.”

She has a look of caution about her now, but she enters the room and walks past him to the bed; sits on the edge. She watches him with careful eyes and an uncertain expression.

Thinking quickly, he says, “I’m just going to check on Agnes — why don’t you take off your robe and find a comfortable spot?”

He leaves before she can reply, wondering as he slips through the partly open nursery door if she’ll do it, or if she’ll retreat from him again. He hopes that at the very least, she won’t get angry.

But when he walks back, he sees that he hadn’t needed to worry. She’s lying on her stomach on the right side of the bed, the candlelight flickering gold over the creamy skin of her back, the crisp sheet pulled up just over her hips. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly; then he closes the bedroom door quietly behind him and walks to the bed.

Sitting down on the edge beside her, he looks into her face. She’s watching him, but she doesn’t look so cautious anymore.

“All right, then, Lizzie?” he asks, flexing his fingers a little.

She’s biting her lower lip, but when she looks up at him through her lashes, her eyes are warm.

“I’m okay,” she answers. “But I’m sure I’ll be better once you get started.”

He chuckles at that, relieved, and runs a hand down the curve of her spine.

“Just close your eyes, then,” he says. “And I’ll get to work.”

* * *

She hadn’t been sure what she would do until she did it; slipping off her robe while she could still see his back in the hallway. The ghost of his hands lingers on her neck and shoulders, and she knows, no matter what else it means, that she wants to feel them again; her stomach jumps, thinking about it.

She has a brief inner debate about underwear, but she doesn’t want it, not really. She slides into bed quickly, before she can think about it too much. She reaches for the sheet and tugs it up high enough for basic propriety, then presses her cheek to the cool pillow and waits.

It’s only moments before he’s back, smiling at her; she thinks he’s pleased that she hasn’t balked. She closes her eyes when he suggests it, listening to the quiet rustle of his movements, feeling him shift his body beside her. The scent of her favourite lotion fills the air, and then a sound she thinks is his hands, rubbing together.

Another moment, and those same hands are sliding down her back, from the base of her neck right down to the edge of the sheet, warm from friction and slick with lotion. His thumbs press in firmly, then pull away from her spine, coaxing at the stubborn knots. She lets out a long, shuddering breath, feeling herself sink a little further into the mattress, the tension already starting to seep away.

He is talking to her, or maybe to himself; his voice is somehow even deeper, richer, sending a little tremble through her system.

“So beautiful,” he’s saying intently. “You’re so lovely, sweetheart”

She wants to reply, laugh it off, maybe, or tell him honestly how she thinks he is beautiful, too. How she catalogues his expressions, and watches his hands move when he talks. How she has wished to make things better between them, make them different. But his palms are pressing into her just below her shoulder blades, and all that comes out is a quiet moan of pleasure as the muscles ease.

She hears his breath catch, followed by the sounds of him collecting and warming more lotion; then there’s a quick series of movements beside her and the warmth of his body settles over her hips, his legs pressing into hers on either side.

Then his hands are on her again, fingers flexing into and around muscle groups she didn’t even know were bothering her until he has smoothed them out. His hands are everywhere, running his thumbs again and again down the sides of her spine; rubbing at her shoulders and down her upper arms; fists kneading into the curve of her waist.

It’s good, it all feels so good she can barely stand it. She’s relaxed and limp as a cat in the sun under his ministrations; at the same time, nerves are starting to flare awake so it feels like he’s painting a picture on her skin, a map of her body’s systems, alight with awareness and heat. In her weaker moments, she’s imagined his touch; the reality surpasses even her most illicit thoughts.

He’s keeping his weight off her, but she longs for more contact now. She feels the sheet move again, and then he’s working his thumbs at her tailbone. She lifts her hips a little for more pressure, and his breath catches again as she slides against him.

He drops, a bit suddenly, as if his legs will no longer hold him up, and she thrills to feel him there, leaning over her so she can feel his breath warm on her neck as he presses and kneads and coaxes. She moves a little more, testing, and another, stronger, thrill runs through her when he groans softly in response. Then it is her turn to catch her breath when his fingers are in her hair and his lips brush the side of her neck on a whisper of her name.

* * *

He’s lost, lost in her soft, warm skin, in the give of her beneath his hands, in her small sounds of pleasure. When she arches to push into his hands, it is more than he can take, his body betraying him by falling into hers. He hopes, as he keeps his hands moving, working, making her pliant and limp, that she is at least too relaxed to care.

But then…then, she shifts underneath him, purposefully…teasingly? He groans in response to the rush of heat that floods him. His body hums eagerly, compelling him to move, to lean close. He runs his fingers through her silky damp hair, baring her neck so he can press his lips there.

“Lizzie,” he murmurs, “I want more; I want to touch and taste; I want to _know_ you.”

“Please,” she replies, low and faint, almost more a shudder than a word. “Please, Red.”

He shifts so that his hands can start again at the base of her neck, this time more gently, stroking, caressing. His lips follow after, tracing the path of his fingers down the enticing contours of her spine, tongue touching softly, just a teasing flick. A rosy flush rises in the wake of his hands and mouth, entrancing him. He wants to see how far it will go; wants to see if all this ivory silk will turn the colour of dawn for him.

Her breath is coming faster, and she quivers when his hands skate her hips. He is delighted to find her naked beneath the sheet, and rearranges himself so he can tug the fabric away and run his hands over the sleek curve of her.

His own breath is getting away from him a little, and his body is fully awake and straining for more — more contact, more touch, taste; he wants to watch her face.

“Roll over, sweetheart.” He murmurs it against her skin.

She is aching with need and want — the paths of hot, wet kisses he trails over her body spark, flicker, burn. It’s a sweet agony, and when he asks, she flips without a second thought. She wants to watch the play of expression over his mobile face, his clever hands moving over her body; she wants to see if he burns as she does.

When her eyes meet his where he hovers, braced on arms and legs above her, the air leaves her in a gasp. The voracious hunger in his face stuns as much as it gratifies, and she reaches for him eagerly. He backs away, though, sitting back on her thighs, a wicked twinkle in his eye.

“Ah ah,” he growls, “not yet, Lizzie. Just let me look at you.” She’s so beautiful it steals away almost all his composure.

She moves underneath him; feels the press of him hard against her, and smiles.

“Are you sure about that?” she asks, her voice husky and raw with desire in a way that sends a bolt of lust straight to the core of him.

Not trusting himself to speak, he pours more lotion into his hands and starts again, from the top. They watch each other, breathing together, as he works his hands gently on her shoulders, strokes along her collarbone and down the centre of her chest. He’s just tracing now, circling around her breasts without touching them directly; it makes her bite her lip again as her nipples tighten and her eyelids flutter.

Her hands rest on his legs; when he finally slides his hands over her, kneading and pulling gently, she sighs in pleasure and rolls her hips against him as her fingers twist into the fabric of his slacks. He doesn’t want to look away from the intense expression on her face, from the deep, cloudy blue of her eyes, but he _does_ want to taste her again.

He leans in and puts his mouth to her breast; she cries out and arches her back. The sensation of his tongue and teeth on her are almost overwhelming; it takes entirely too much effort to keep herself from rubbing helplessly against him as moisture wells between her legs.

He starts to move again, tracing her ribs with fingers then mouth; licking a path down her abdomen. He is enchanted by the lovely flush that does, indeed, cover most of her body; to feel her hands clutching at his hips. He runs a final, delicate line over her pubic bone, and she whimpers in response.

Then, only then, when they are both driven to the edge and nearly overcome with need — then, he braces his hands on the mattress beside her and leans in to take her mouth.

For one brief, sparkling moment, she cannot think at all. Everything is lost in the touch of lips, the sweep of tongues, the tremor that washes through her. Awareness comes to her body first — the press of weight, the mingle of breath, the buttons of his shirt against her ribs. The tingling of nerves, awake and yearning, so she wraps her arms around him to keep him close. Her desire moves like rising tide, and there is a _rightness_ to his touch that she has never felt.

_This_ , she manages to think dazedly, _just this_. There’s an edge to it, a ferocity born of need that is just as intoxicating as the kiss itself. She moves against him, has to, must ease her hunger, and rasp of cloth against her tingles and arouses so that she moans again into his mouth, clinging to him.

He shifts his weight to his left side and slides his right hand down her body, moving easily over her slick skin, slipping between her thighs to tease and touch and take. She can’t catch her breath; his explorations are thorough and devastating. He rubs with increasing pressure until she is writhing with need beneath him, then he slips two long fingers inside her and strokes, and she comes apart in a blinding flash.

* * *

She’s like a miracle under his hands, his mouth, his body. Responsive and sensual, as eager for touch as he is. He tries to be gentle as he thrusts his hand against her willing heat, but she’s moving urgently, with soft cries that drive him on. He delves into her, watching her face dissolve into pleasure, to revel in her abandon as her head tips back and her voice cracks.

He gentles his hand with effort, easing her down from the crest so that her breath evens out a bit and her body settles. Her eyes flutter open to meet his, and the misty cloudiness is gone now, swallowed by a sharp electric blue that pierces him like a dart. He reaches for words, but has none; leans in to press his mouth to her lips, cheek, forehead, temple.

He is luxuriating in the taste of her neck when he feels her hands on him, unbuttoning, peeling his shirt away and pressing into his skin. He draws a shuddering breath; the touch of her fingers, sure and steady, is a heady thing, so much so that he has to pull away to regain himself.

She’s nudging him with her legs now, pushing gently with a lift of her hips. He slides his arms under her and rolls, so she’s sitting on top of him with a breathless laugh and flash of blue eyes. She takes him over, a voyage of discovery with mouth and hands, finding the places on his body that make him thrill and yearn and moan.

He wants to hold her, to grip her slim waist and bring her back to his mouth, but she is taking him apart piece by piece, and he has to fist his hands into the sheets to keep from spending himself. He rocks helplessly against her; it’s his turn to writhe as she scratches her nails through his soft chest hair and licks a hot wet line from his collarbone to his ear; as she presses her weight against his aching hardness with a wicked smile.

“Lizzie,” he gasps, only her name left to him now. “ _Lizzie._ ”

She laughs softly, pleased with herself, still flushed with passion, with the pleasure of rousing him. Taking her time, she runs her hands down his sides before she neatly unfastens his pants, shifting herself so she can wriggle them over his hips and down his thighs, pulling his boxers with them. He kicks them both away in a flurry, yanking her back over him for a searing kiss, pouring all his pent-up need into her mouth until she’s gasping with it.

Then her hand is on him, warm and questing, wrapping around him with just the right amount of pressure — he thinks the jolt it sends through him could easily have stopped his heart. She takes a moment to look, her eyes on him like a brand, making him swell further, almost painfully. She licks her lower lip thoughtfully and he bucks in her hand.

She shifts carefully, still touching, caressing, making him mad with want. He wants her mouth back on his, growls her name, but she holds back, watching him steadily as she takes him within in one long smooth motion. He groans rapturously; the sensations are dizzying, his body aflame with her. He reaches for her, but his hands slide away from her lotion-slick skin, and she laughs again, her joy infectious.

She feels so _alive_ , all her senses open wide and absorbing every detail. The way sweat beads at his temples, the way his voice has gone hoarse in an agony of need. The curl of his fingers against her, the tight stretch of the tendons in his neck as he strives for control. The feel of him, _god_ , the feel of him, impossibly hard, gliding against her swollen tissues as she rises, falls.

She wants nothing more than everything, everything he has to give; she leans in, increasing the pressure deliciously. She kisses him once, again, again; follows his jaw with her mouth to the tiny white scar over his carotid — _the one that makes him mine_ , she thinks fiercely, _mine_ — then she bites down as she pushes back flush against him.

And it works — in a swift heave of movement, he’s tossing her back, rearing over her, plunging deep in a rhythm so forceful that she can barely keep up. Everything builds as they move frantically, point/counterpoint, a frenetic dance. She feels the pull of his impending release and tilts her hips to catch the leading edge of his thrusts so they fall as one, tumbling into ecstasy. 

* * *

It takes him more than a few moments to get his breath back, to gather himself enough to shift his weight away. She curls against him contentedly, their legs tangled, their arms draped weakly over one another. She feels delightfully sated, every muscle and nerve ending loose and at ease.

With a little effort, he reaches up to comb his fingers through her hair, still savouring every sensation. The feel of her limp warmth against his side is everything he thinks he could possibly want.

“Well,” he says eventually, when their breath has quieted and the room fallen still. “Did that help?”

And her laughter, mingling with the tiny grunts of a wakening baby over the monitor, is still the loveliest thing he’s ever heard.


End file.
